Crumble and Burn
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: He was vaguely aware of John at his side, but all he could focus on were the orange-red flames licking past the windows of 221B. When the boys no longer have Baker Street to call home, how will they cope?
1. Prologue

**Crumble and Burn**

* * *

**Rating: T for angst, folks.  
Genre(s): Friendship, angst, hurt/comfort, family, tragedy, mystery/crime.  
Timeline: Post S3/post Mary/daughter death. (John has moved back in with Sherlock.)  
Multi-chapter.  
**

* * *

Prologue

Sirens in London weren't a rare occurrence.

Sherlock glanced disinterestedly towards the window when he heard the sirens. His mind was fine-tuned, hypersensitive, to pick up on any of those sounds: fire, ambulance, police, so on. He could tell them all apart, and those sirens were... he paused mentally for a moment, filtering through the catalogue of noises in his mind... fire. Boring.

He looked away from the window and to John. He was paying for their prize for a case well done at the moment: a Chinese takeaway. Sherlock wasn't exactly sure why Chinese takeaway was considered a prize for a case well done - surely his skills deserved something better than takeaway - but he wasn't a gourmand and he wasn't complaining. Right now, he was just hungry.

"Did they put my sweet rolls in there?" he asked as John joined them, hooking his fingers into the plastic takeaway bag. One memorable time that they had had takeaway, the idiot had taken the order wrong and left out half of his meal. It wasn't like it had been this restaurant in particular, but it did lack certain amusement when he got home with dinner to find half of his order wrong, and nothing else in the fridge expect pickling eyeballs.

"Yes," John retorted, jerking the bag free of Sherlock's fingers. "I already checked. I _always_ check now, the fit you threw when they messed it up _once_. I'm surprised you didn't talk Mycroft into descending on their business and putting them out or something."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I wasn't _that_ upset. I just was hungry."

"Heaven forbid someone gets it wrong when Sherlock Holmes gets hungry," John muttered, flashing him a grin that Sherlock returned. The case was closed, the criminal was caught, his stomach was about to be full of tasty Chinese food... It was a good day.

"You know... those don't sound like they're coming from Baker Street, do they?"

They were only minutes away from Baker Street when John spoke again, and with the statement, Sherlock began to realise that the sirens that he had been subconsciously listening to were indeed getting louder, not quieter.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "Fire engines. I'd imagine the police are probably on scene or on their way, seeing as how they're always there when there's a fire..." he trailed off before an idea struck him. "Another gas leak?" he suggested, lips twisting into a smile at the remembrance of the explosion that had knocked him clean to the floor and left his ears ringing for days. Not technically a gas leak, but John would get the point.

"It better not be a gas leak... _or_ an explosion," John muttered, the previous smile giving way to a scowl. Clearly, he remembered the previous explosion on Baker Street with less fondness, although Sherlock wasn't sure why he was entitled to. _He_ had been across the street from it; John had been in bed (on the lilo) with a woman.

"I don't know," Sherlock said absently, "it would bring some colour."

He shoved his hands in his pockets as he rounded the corner. He'd walked these streets for almost ten years now, between meeting John, faking his death, living alone, and John moving back in following Mary's death. He knew the place like the back of his hand, and he knew where the fire was the moment that he stepped onto Baker Street.

Their flat.

He drew up short as the realisation hit, a brick wall crashing down in front of him and rooting him to the spot. He was vaguely aware of John at his side, but all he could focus on were the orange-red flames licking past the windows of 221B and creeping towards John's upstairs bedroom.

221B.

Sherlock took off running, pushing past the crowd of people surrounding the sidewalks. Firefighters were trying to put out the fire, police were trying to herd the crowd away. Sherlock pushed his way through the throng, the crackling, popping sound of fire snapping in his ears. The crackling, popping sound of _their flat_ burning.

Not his flat. Not his things. He was _not_ letting the place burn down. Not Baker Street. Not home.

He didn't stop to see if John was coming. At this point, it didn't matter. Right now, all that mattered was the flat. _But what are you going to do about it?_ whispered a tiny little voice in the back of his head. He wasn't a fire-fighter and he'd never had any ambitions of the sort, but he couldn't stand there and _watch_ it _burn_. _Not_ Baker Street.

As he ran, he was doing a mental catalogue. These things mattered. There was more here than just his belongings. Mrs Hudson had gone to her sister's three days ago now for some time in London. She'd only gone as far as Dublin, but Sherlock had complained mightily about it when she'd told them the news. Now, he realised, complaining was the worst thing to have had done because if she had stayed, she very well might have been killed. Secondly, what had caused the fire? Surely not the charred toenails from earlier, because he had doused those in water to try and chase away the horrible smell. This hadn't been _his_ fault, had it? Not John's. Definitely not John's, because John was diligent and intelligent and aware when it came to these mundane, human, inane, _normal_ tasks like keeping a fire extinguisher around when Sherlock played with fire and making sure electrical products that weren't in use were unplugged. He wouldn't leave the oven on, but it was true that Sherlock might forget to turn it off sometimes. But _had_ it been him? He didn't recall anything. If not him, then who? Random passerby? Intentional arson? Gas leak? A lamp or light socket overheating, sparking? _What_?

The police tried to push him back, but Sherlock slipped between them, twisting left and right and left again, charging ahead past the wall of flesh to his destination. No one, _no one_, was holding him back from the one place he truly belonged.

He hit the door running, throwing it open with his weight. The wood was warm to the touch and flames were peppering the landing. Sherlock barely took notice of them, only saw that the stairs were free and went bounding up them two at a time, the ominous crackling of burning wood echoing in his ears.

He came to a fluid stop in the doorway of their sitting room, his eyes blown wide, pupils reflecting the burning pieces of their lives. _No, really, what was this going to accomplish, running into a burning building?_ He shook the thought away and tore from the spot, grabbing what hadn't already been consumed by the fire on the front part of the building. John's afghan on the back of the chair, the Union Jack pillow, laptop from the kitchen table, where was his violin?

Sherlock had never done the 'what three things would you take from your flat if it were on fire?' quip. Rhetorical questions had never been his strong suit and pointless musings weren't his forte. What was the point of thinking about it? You would never remember those things, he thought, as he coughed mightily, his lungs rebelling against breathing in the smoke-laden air.

Through watering eyes and heavy heart, he caught sight of his violin perched against the hallway wall. Right; he had been polishing it earlier back in his room and he had only gotten as far as the hall with it before being distracted with his mould experiment in the bathroom. He dodged into the hallway to grab it, curling his fingers tightly around the battered case's handle. He didn't know why it was so important to him. It was just an instrument. But it was a genuine Stradivarius, and music was his outlet. He needed his violin to survive, just like he needed his home. But Baker Street -

He winced at a particularly loud crash - the windows bursting in the sitting room, for one, and something else Sherlock couldn't make up - his eyes snapping around to survey the damage as flames licked through the sitting room, dust, debris, and ash around him. The entire front façade was lost to flames, as soon would be the rest of the flat, if the fire wasn't contained

He felt dizzy. And fear. He definitely felt fear.

"Sherlock!? Sherlock, get out of here!" Sherlock heard the voice through his subconscious, but he jolted like he'd been shot when John grabbed his arm. Simultaneously, something exploded in the kitchen and glass shattered. Sherlock felt it hit his back and felt himself flinching into John's presence like he could help. Like John's presence would make it better, but it didn't, not now, because John shouldn't be in here with him, too.

"We have to leave!" John yelled, grabbing at the laptop and pillow in his arms and ripping them free of his grasp. Tenuous fingers tried to hold on, just to something, the last memories of his flat, but his lungs were burning and his eyes stinging, and the way his head was swimming spoke volumes that John was being truthful: they had to leave.

"We can't leave. It's _home_," he stressed, but his voice was drowned out by the roar of the fire and the crackling as fire licked down the hallway wall towards them. His eyes watered from the smoke and the heat and he coughed, struggling to catch his breath while his chest was so tight.

"_Now!_"

The human, irrational, emotional, rebellious, _horrified_ part of his mind clicked off. The part telling him that he wasn't Sherlock Holmes without 221B Baker Street blinked out. It was just a flat. There were just objects. They didn't matter. They never had.

He grabbed John's shoulder and spun him towards the doorway, grabbing at his own coat collar to duck his face against afterwards. He shoved John towards the stairs and followed without a backwards glance, leaving behind that he had been living in, _really living in_, for the best years of his life by far.

But that was sentiment. And that didn't matter.

Control control control.

A minor miracle, or maybe a bit one, but Sherlock didn't believe in those before and he was less inclined now, helped them back downstairs and out into the cool air, into the arms of EMTs and police. Sherlock sucked in deep breaths of the cool, clean air, but barely stopped for breath before he was stumbling away; he couldn't stay here, not under the eyes and hands of the EMTs trying to get him into the ambulance to be treated for smoke inhalation and whatever else. Instead, he just grabbed his laptop back from John to move away as quickly as he could possibly manage. There was no point to be here. Not anymore.

He shoved the afghan he had grabbed off the back of John's chair - _was John's, had always been John's, John had brought it when he had moved his stuff in the first time, Sherlock hated it, always hated it, it looked horrible, but it smelled like John because it always hung on the back of John's chair where he sat all day watching mindless telly so Sherlock couldn't complain too much when he invariably ended up covered up with it when he dozed off on the sofa_ - and shoved it into John's arms, next to the Union Jack pillow John had already taken from him - _that was Sherlock's, he didn't remember why he had it, and it had been in the flat before John had moved in, but there was something sentimental about it because it the first thing John had ever touched when he first saw the flat (look around, "... could be very nice indeed...", set the pillow up, thumped it into shape, fell in the chair that forever became 'his')_ - and said "Toss it in the bin if you don't want it," before turning away.

He slipped his laptop into his coat and wrapped his arm around his torso to keep it there, switching his violin case to his left hand to pull out his mobile with his right. He turned away from the burning building and dialled Mycroft's number; they'd need a place to stay for tonight, after all, and his wallet had been in the flat and John didn't have enough cash on him right now. Mycroft would already know about the fire, but Sherlock had nowhere else to turn to when tragedy arose, which was the sad, horrible truth about all of this: now, he had to call his brother.

* * *

** Look. what. I. did.**

**This is actually a role play turned into a story, written by me and ScribeOfRed! Or, at least, this part is. We started this RP together but our schedules have become very non-RP productive, so, with her permission, I'm turning what we have in the RP into a story and continuing it from there. John's actions, at this point, are all ScribeOfRed; I write for Sherlock.**

**Note: You get the plot, but this is going to be a lot of feels. There isn't a lot of dialogue to begin with, but we will get there. This is heavy stuff.**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Your follows/favs/and reviews would be appreciated. Thank you!**


	2. Chapter One

"Hello, John."

Sherlock faintly heard Mycroft greet John as he bustled through the familiar halls of his brother's flat. Lavish flat. Expensive flat. Stupid, posh flat. It was a fusion of modern and classical furniture, clutter-free and completely spotless, with pale gray carpet that showed his ash-outlined footprints as he headed back to his bedroom.

His bedroom at _Mycroft's flat_. Unfortunately, yes, he did have one. He had stayed with Mycroft after his apparent suicide and some times since, because of experiments gone wrong, but he hated the place. It was too... neat, almost so that it stifled him to death, and he was already having a hard enough time breathing as it was.

He had some clothes here, and a burner phone in case of emergencies, and high-quality satin sheets on the bed that were calling his name relentlessly.

Sherlock set his laptop and violin on the dresser before peeling his coat off, glass fragments falling down harmlessly onto the plush carpet, overlaid with soot and ash as he shook the coat out. He found a hanger in the small closet and hung the coat on the doorframe, kicking off his shoes afterwards and then traipsing to the bathroom to lock himself in and have a long, hot shower.

The cab ride from Baker Street to here had only taken a handful of minutes, but it had felt like an eternity. Silence was louder than words right now. Sherlock didn't want anything to do with either of them, so he was doing what he had perfected so many, many years ago: he was switching off. It was so much easier to deny facing it than to face it and writhe in pain.

The shower was hot, although not entirely relaxing, as the scalding water bounced off his skin and washed the ash and soot down the drain filtered through only the barest level of his consciousness. He washed off methodically, washed his hair, rinsed, and turned the water off. His body was exhausted, mentally and physically. Add in emotionally compromised, and Sherlock stood, dripping wet in front of the mirror for a few, long moments before remembering: towel off, dressing gown, walk to bedroom. He couldn't fall asleep standing up in the shower.

He dried off with the thick, plush towel and pulled a neatly-folded black dressing gown from one of the drawers, shoving his arms through the sleeves and clumsily tying the sash. He cracked open a new toothbrush from another drawer, and a new tube of toothpaste, brushed his teeth, and shuffled his way back across the hallway into his room.

He closed and locked the door behind him.

Nostrils flaring with a soft sigh, he went to the bed and shoved the blankets aside only enough to crawl between them, curling up beneath their soft embrace with tense shoulders and a headache.

Some very vague, uninterested, wanting to be distracted part of his mind wondered if this was like what John had felt like when Mary had died. Or maybe even after he had been shot in Afghanistan. Time was floating and thoughts were scattered like sand particles, shifting. The weight on his chest pressed too hard, over his heart and lungs, and made it impossible to draw a full breath. How long had he been here at Mycroft's already? Seconds? Minutes? Hours? Everything was smothered in the face of the reality that had happened and...

Sherlock hated to admit it, but it was mind-numbing.

He closed his eyes.

* * *

He must have been dozing, sometime, somehow. The exhaustion was hanging over his body in heavy layers, but sleep wasn't coming like it should. Maybe it never would. Maybe he would just die of exhaustion.

At some point, Sherlock heard his bedroom door crack open. It was John, because it was always John, locked doors not a hindrance, but Sherlock didn't move from his spot on the bed. He had feigned unconsciousness time and time over - he did a lot of it when he was a kid - so he knew how to keep his breathing, how to feign unconscious movement by clumsily moving his arms up around his head, sighing softly for effect. His throat was killing him.

John didn't say anything, though, just stepped into the room silently and went to the windows to close the blinds and pull the curtains. Darkness as an escape from the mid-evening glare of sunshine immediately settled around them. Sherlock would have thanked him if it was other circumstances; the light killed his head when he was trying to work through 'human emotions'. It was like having a bad migraine that wouldn't go away, emotions.

When consciousness swam back to him again, Sherlock was having nightmares. One minute, he had been in a soft, warm bed with his curls splayed out against the pillow, staring at the ceiling, and the next, he was surrounded by flames and burning furniture, case files, and the maniacal face of a now very-much dead James Moriarty staring out at him from the ashes.

He woke up with a shuddering gasp, the thick scent of smoke deep in his nostrils and strangling him. No, _no_; this was all in his _mind_. There wasn't smoke in the flat. This was Mycroft's house. It wasn't on fire.

Rationally, he knew his mind controlled the vivid almost-hallucination, but his body failed to realise it. His heart was thrumming beneath a sweat-soaked chest, lungs aching for oxygen as he curled around his pillow in a hopeless attempt to smother his coughing. His lungs felt like they were on fire, his throat was charred raw from the smoke he'd inhaled earlier. He had only been in the flat for fifteen seconds longer than John, but that was like a lifetime in a smoke-encased building.

He coughed until his coughing turned to gagging, his stomach rebelling. He kicked the blankets away and scrambled out of bed, crossing the room in a few short steps. He ran down the hallway with his hand clapped over his mouth, bare feet more or less muted by the thick carpeting on the floor. He didn't bother to close the bathroom door behind him; it was roughly four in the morning and tasting the burning avid of bile on the back of his tongue did very little to persuade him to take the few extra seconds to close it.

Crashing to his knees in front of the toilet, he threw up violently, never-mind that there was hardly anything in his stomach to bring back up. He hadn't been eating because of the case and their dinner had been spoiled by the fact that their flat was on fire. Remnants of tea and toast and cups of coffee made up his vomit, he noted idly; those were luxuries that he'd never experience in his own flat again and yet, there they were, half-digested in the toilet basin.

Sherlock coughed weakly and swallowed against the burning ache in his throat.

It seemed like it took every ounce of energy in his body to reach back and flush the toilet and then push himself to his feet. His entire body was shaking. He was getting too old for this. Or maybe the mental strain had him feeling a bit older than forty-three... but no matter the reason, he didn't want to end up in front of the toilet, vomiting up meagre suppers any time in the near future again.

"Hey..."

Sherlock flinched from the voice - John's, hesitant, half-asleep - his nerves shooting taut before unravelling again, the invisible rubber band snapping and his stomach reacting again. He spun for the sink this time to cough and retch, knowing that nothing else would be coming back up except bile and saliva. He put things into his mouth he shouldn't for the sake of science - two week old pasta or not washing his hands after rooting through skips - so he _knew_ what he was going to cough back up. That was the only reason he went for the sink. As amusing as the thought of throwing up all over Mycroft's penthouse would, he wouldn't _actually_ do it because... yeah, he had standards.

"... You okay?" John murmured, stepping into the bathroom.

Alarms went off in Sherlock's mind - _boundaries_ - as John stepped closer, too close in Sherlock's peripheral vision, and his head snapped up with what he could only describe as anger. He didn't know why, and he didn't _want _to be angry, but he _didn't_ want John around. He wanted to be alone now, and maybe for the indefinite future, but, despite John's best intentions, he _didn't_ want to _talk_.

"I'm fine," he bit off, holding up his hand to stop John in his tracks. His voice was hoarse. He didn't really _sound_ fine, but it didn't matter. A hoarse voice and raw throat just gave him reason not to talk. He turned on the tap, washed his hands, and splashed some water on his face. "Go to bed," he continued, knuckling the tap off again and drying his hands on his dressing gown.

He pushed past John and strode back into the hallway, padding towards the kitchen instead of the bedroom. He desperately needed some tea.

John followed him. Sherlock knew he was there, he knew that _too_ well, actually, and, for once in his life, he wished he'd leave. Because the ghost-like behaviour was irritating beyond belief. With any luck, if he didn't talk to him, he'd go away. Unfortunately, he knew John well enough to know that he _wouldn't_. And that just made him angry.

There was a tray sitting on the kitchen island, gold and shining even in the darkness, holding a teapot, two sturdy mugs, several flavours of tea in a small woven basket, an ornate glass jar of honey, and a lemon sitting on the counter next to the kettle. Sherlock tried not to think about it too much. Mycroft had clearly been expecting Sherlock to be awake in the middle of the night, but if Sherlock dwelled on the fact that someone _else _was _trying_ to _help_ when he didn't need it, his irritation level would fly beyond the rails.

He knew the state of his nerves and he knew that he was toeing danger level, as far as how much he could handle. Rarely did he have so much to swallow that he ended up erupting in a rush of ill-wishes and shouting. It took a lot to make him raise his voice, but his entire life burning to the ground kind of seemed like a good reason for being pissed off at the world.

Instead of focussing on all of that, because he couldn't, not right now, he just made himself a cup of orange spice tea and took it back to his bedroom. He crawled back into bed and sat back, leaning against the headboard. He drank his tea slowly, breathing in the steam, the scent of black pepper and nutmeg and the sweet, calming smell of oranges. He was trying to relax. Unfortunately, a cup of tea wouldn't be able to help him do that right now. He knew that, but yet, he was hanging onto forlorn hopes that it would anyway.

* * *

**Talk about the volume of actions in silence.  
Sherlock is not 'fine'.**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thanks for following; I'd love to know your thoughts!**


	3. Chapter Two

By seven o' clock in the morning, Sherlock was out of his room, showered, having consumed a breakfast of another cuppa and a half piece of toast. He'd taken the lemon from the kitchen and took it down familiar hallways until he came to Mycroft's bedroom, where had he sat the fruit down in front of the door and strode back through the hallways to the lounge.

Mycroft was already dressed in the usual black, three-piece suit when he strode into the lounge later. "Sherlock, why was there a lemon in front of my bedroom door? I suppose you'll be pleased to know that I almost tripped over it."

Sherlock didn't look up from his laptop, but his lips twitched towards a twisted version of a smirk. He pressed his back more firmly against the sofa and folded his legs more comfortably beneath him. "Because you're sour and never seem to leave."

"The travelling lemon? Now?"

"I saw an opportunity." Sherlock looked up. "I also saw the paperwork that one of your assistants slipped through my door around five. I've marked the ones that are promising, although I'm sure you realise that they are out of my price range. Even between the money from consulting and John's work and Mary's legacy, we won't be able to support ourselves in places like these." He held out the files to Mycroft.

"Yes," Mycroft said absently, taking the files and fanning them briefly. "I am aware."

"And why is there nothing in Central?"

Now Mycroft raised his eyebrows, looking up at him. "Sherlock, how many vacancies do you think are in Central London? The ones that are vacant are for good reason; if you thought these were out of your price range, you'd be long expired before he had a chance to pay me back for one there."

Sherlock tried to batter back the irritation, but it showed through flared nostrils and tense shoulders. He knew it was true. The consulting business was lucrative enough to keep him at Baker Street, only because of the deal he and Mrs Hudson had had, but having to start over like this meant that he had no wiggle room. Central London was expensive. But Central London was _home_ to him.

"I'm not looking forward to having to pay you back at all," he muttered instead of voicing his thoughts aloud. "Alright, let's get a visual. I'm sure you have camera activity at all of the properties you watch." He rolled his eyes as he stood up.

Mycroft's eyes were following him, but Sherlock didn't acknowledge him, just headed for the doorway.

"Did you eat breakfast?" Mycroft asked shortly.

"Shut up," Sherlock retorted.

* * *

Looking at CCTV footage of flats - or houses, some were actual houses - wasn't the best way to start a morning. Nonetheless, Sherlock sat next to Mycroft silently and set to the task of scanning through each. Neither of them said a word, which Sherlock was fine with, except for the occasional, resounding "No" when Sherlock happened upon a flat he didn't like.

He knew, almost immediately, when John was coming. He heard his footsteps in the otherwise silent hall. He was probably eating one of those raspberry and chocolate scones that had been on the countertop in the kitchen. John liked chocolate scones. He liked raspberry jam. So, of course he would like a raspberry chocolate scone. Why was he even thinking about this?

John cleared his throat. "Morning."

Well. Great that _someone_ wanted to talk.

"I've narrowed it down to three different places. Mycroft will show you CCTV footage for the possibilities I've picked out. Two are single-level flats, the other is a duplex in the country," Sherlock said, spinning around in the swivel chair. "Figure out which one you could live with, because it's the one we'll be living _in_." He stood, drawing himself up to full height and strode from the room without another word.

No nonsense. This was the way that he was going to handle it. No nonsense and no feeling.

Now, he was going to get his already-dry-cleaned coat from the entranceway, grab a cab, and head off to check out the places in person. He wasn't staying with Mycroft longer than he could help it, so: reconnaissance. He also wanted to go back to Baker Street and inspect the damage...

"I hope you weren't planning to inspect those flats without me."

Sherlock's fingers fumbled around his coat. John was, literally, his shadow. Sherlock knew this, after ten years of living with or near him, but this... was it always this bad? Or was John just hovering _because_ he thought Sherlock needed it?

He shook his head slightly, chasing away the flicker of annoyance and that strange brush of anger, continuing to button up his coat. "Of course not," he said smoothly, looping his scarf around his neck. "Why would I do it without you?" He turned and pulled the door open, striding off down the street to find a cab.

John never responded, and he didn't say anything even when they were both tucked into a cab. Sherlock was eternally grateful that he wasn't speaking. He didn't know if he was doing it for his benefit or just because he didn't feel like talking, either, but John usually liked to pry. Well, he had before he had gotten married, anyway, and after Sherlock had come back, things had never been the same, and after Mary had died, John hadn't been in a state to talk at all.

Sherlock had done a lot of coaxing John to actually _live_ those first few weeks after Mary had died. Of course, it hadn't been talking more than was warranted - Sherlock hadn't felt like talking then, either -, but if John refused to leave his bedroom for more than forty-eight hours, Sherlock was there, literally dragging him out of his bed and even one morning going as far as trying to undress him to get him into some clean clothes before John had snapped out of it and stormed into the loo to do it himself.

And then, of course, Sherlock had gone home and took a too-hot shower that had scalded his skin and proceeded to flat-out _sob_ while he was under the confines of the water, where no one could see that he was emotional about the whole thing. Because he had to be Sherlock in front of John during those dark days. John needed Sherlock to be the same person he always had been and that did not mean letting John see into that depressed part of his mind that had mourned Mary and the child more than John seemed to sometimes.

Sherlock had, naturally, never told John had bad things had gotten on _his_ end after Mary and the unborn Watson daughter had died. He had never told John just how aware of where he kept his gun he was, and how aware he was of how many rounds he kept in it. He just... had never wanted to entertain the conversation.

And speaking of Mary, or thinking of her, anyway (which were things Sherlock didn't like to do, because he invariably ended up feeling sentimental), John had just instructed the cab to stop. When Sherlock glanced up, he found that they were outside of a tea shop that John and Mary had always frequented. They had all gone there one afternoon, together, and Sherlock had gotten black tea with orange zest and Mary and John had shared a raspberry-jam filled pastry, where John had gotten jam on his lips and Mary had leaned in for the kiss that would tickle Sherlock's emotion with amusement as John got flustered and muttered about _'Mary, we're in public!'_.

But, bringing up the reminder of Mary's death - and John's daughter, but Sherlock really went into hysterics if he thought that way, and he had, one night, so upset that he'd ended up making himself sick, a sinus infection from crying that he told John was a cold and John hadn't been in the right state of mind to question it - was hardly beneficial when they had just lost their flat.

Sherlock turned his head away from the tea shop and went back to texting Mycroft, not moving until John come back. When he did, Sherlock simply took the lemon tea John had bought him, didn't say a word of thanks, and continued to text. He'd throw it out at the next stop. Wasn't that it wasn't appealing. He just didn't drink tea from this establishment anymore. Dare he say _too many memories_.

It was a long day.

In the end, they ended up settling on the duplex. John liked it best - and Sherlock didn't have to even ask which John liked best because Sherlock could read it his body language and how much time he spent looking at each room, planning out their new layout if this would really become their flat - and Sherlock didn't care. As long as he had somewhere to stay, that wasn't Mycroft's house, he didn't care. It was just a flat, after all.

By morning, Sherlock would have everything set in motion. The flat would be furnished, thanks to Mycroft. Still, technically, the furniture wouldn't be _theirs_. The teacups wouldn't be theirs and they would have the taste of Mycroft and his attendants written all over them, but it was a flat.

That was all that mattered. He guessed.

* * *

**And this is one time where Sherlock isn't sure of anything.**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. The travelling lemon belongs to John Finnemore. Thanks for reading!**


	4. Chapter Three

"Home, sweet home," Sherlock said dryly, dropping his duffel bag into the entranceway. His voice was coming back, slowly but surely, in the few days it had been since the afternoon of the fire. His throat still ached, but he wouldn't go to doctor for it. There were more pressing things, like the fact that he had very little clothing left to his name, only the clothes that had been at Mycroft's that were now shoved irritably into the duffel bag he'd just dropped.

Without another word, he turned and took the steps two a time upstairs. Both of the bedrooms were upstairs this time. The last time Sherlock had slept upstairs had been when he had camped out in the attic when he was a child because he hadn't wanted to sleep in the same room as Mycroft. But it had been so hot in the attic, Sherlock's plan had been ruined. Hopefully, the central air in the house would chase summer heat away from the upstairs now. Sherlock hated sleeping when it was hot.

He tightened his grip on his laptop in one hand, his violin case in the other, and toed open the door to the bedroom that was now his. It definitely had Mycroft's touch; Sherlock could see it in the curtains, the duvet, and the carpet. Strangely, though, there were bits of Sherlock already in this room, too. There was a framed copy of the periodic table hanging on the wall, similar to his previous one but different in colour and font. Sherlock stared at it blankly for a long moment before stepping forward, putting his laptop onto the desk in the corner. Nearly identical to the old desk in Sherlock's old room, albeit a lot neater.

He shook his head and dropped his violin onto the double bed, flopping face-first into the brand new duvet. He ran his fingers idly over the worn-down, beaten-up case. It was one singularity, one instance of normalcy in this otherwise topsy-turvy world.

This definitely wasn't home. Yes, it was their flat. But a 'house' wasn't always necessarily a 'home'.

He guessed it was up to him and John to make it into one.

Instead of bothering to find something else to do, Sherlock stayed exactly where he was: sprawled out, laying across his bed with his face in the blankets. He left his room occasionally to use the loo, traipsing down the hallway with sluggish limbs and little enthusiasm. He went to get a cuppa once, but he just wasn't hungry or thirsty. Honestly, he wasn't in much of a mood to do _anything_.

That was depression. He knew that. He was determined not to let it get the best of him, but he also told himself that he'd deal with it later. He had the power to break out of the sluggishness. Sure. He didn't just want to right now.

He also didn't want to sleep. Or, maybe he did, but he _couldn't_. He hadn't done that for four, maybe five days now. He hadn't been sleeping because of the case prior to the fire, and now, after everything that had happened, all he saw when he closed his eyes were the flickering imprints of flames tearing down Baker Street.

He was reaching his limit, although he wasn't consciously aware of it. All he was consciously aware of was that he wanted to be sprawled out across their sofa with two or three nicotine patches, but his sofa wasn't there and neither were his nicotine patches.

Midnight crept by with the ticking of an ornate clock on the wall, and then one, and then two. Sherlock pressed his forehead into his pillow - too new, too stiff, too _not_ plushy - and stifled a groan. It wasn't like he didn't _want_ to sleep, no. He definitely did. Sleep was the only refuge from this terrible reality. But it was physically impossible. He was wound so tightly that he couldn't relax and he wasn't entirely sure how he was supposed to come back from that. If there had been a sleeping aid in this flat, he would have taken double the intended dose and been out like a light. That was probably the reason there was _no_ sleeping agents in the flat.

With an annoyed growl, he pushed himself into a sitting position and flung the tangled blankets away, grabbing his violin from the foot of the bed. He flipped the latches and jerked the violin out, whisking his bow free.

He wasn't in the mood for music so much as he was a distraction, so he didn't look for a composition in his vast room of Music Knowledge in his mind palace. Instead, he just sawed his bow back and forth over the noise, ignoring as the grating, screeching notes bit into his throbbing head, over and over again. He'd done this once before to chase Mycroft out of their flat; maybe it would work to chase away his thoughts.

It wasn't as though the notes helped that crushing headache settled permanently beneath his left temple, but the fact that John thumped down the hallway not a whole thirty seconds later and proceeded to pound on his door brought the first flicker of amusement that he'd felt in _days_ to his body.

"Sherlock, stop that _right_ now or I _swear_ I will have Mycroft lock it up in one of his secret bases!"

It wasn't funny, it wasn't. But it was funny that John was angry at him. For some reason.

His own emotions were so dark and twisted that he was in a remarkably dark place, for him. His strops that were dark and twisted usually ended up with cocaine and drug dens, a die-hard habit, product of his past. But even the urge to go out and shoot up wasn't there, not right now, but instead replaced with the urge to see how far he could push _John_ before _he_ snapped. John snapping was better than Sherlock letting himself snap, right?

He jerked the bow harshly across the _d_ string, scowling at his bedroom door as the sharp, wailing note echoed in the now-silence of the flat. That was his not-so-silent way of saying _Piss off!_ with a capital _P_.

He tapped his fingers against the polished wood of his violin for a second, awaiting to see what John would do. Regardless of the threats, Sherlock didn't _want_ to stop playing and therefore he wouldn't. He had to resist the insane urge to put two fingers on the _a_ and peel off a _c sharp_, fingers itching to be back against the strings.

His door flung open seconds later. John marched in with his shoulders squared and expression set. "I understand," he said - it sounded like his teeth were gritted - "that the last few days haven't been easy for you, Sherlock, and maybe you don't want to sleep, but _some_ of us do."

Sherlock didn't look up, but he was helpless to stop the very brief, vaguely homicidal grin that flashed across his lips. His back was to the door now, so John wouldn't see it, but the amusement was fresh in his mind. That was bad, he knew it was. He shouldn't be taking humour out of annoying his flatmate. After all, if John hadn't been out with him to get dinner, he might not even _have_ a flatmate at all right now.

But he shook that thought away and raised his bow back into playing position. He returned to playing the patchy notes that had been sawing off before, ignoring John's presence behind him. He knew how this was going to end. He knew John would eventually tear the violin from his hands to prevent him from playing, take it with him so he could go back to sleep. But it didn't matter the end result. He was pushing all the wrong boundaries, anyway: how long he could go without food, without sleeping, what made John tick. Why should he put bother into trying to make amends while he was still actively tearing them down?

He heard John's footsteps. He was going to yell him into what he hoped was cooperation, Sherlock anticipated, and his already-coiled body tightened further, awaiting the moment where John would raise his voice. He could practically hear the adrenalin pumping through his body; there was a fight to be had. Or at least: he was going to be yelled at. Close enough.

But then John did something Sherlock hadn't expected at all: he put his hand on his shoulder.

Sherlock jerked as though he'd been shot. He had expected a row. He hadn't expected _compassion_. He couldn't _deal _with that.

"Get _off_," he snapped, the amount of venom dripping from his tone surprising even himself, and retreated to the other side of the room. He delved into his mind palace to find composition now and put the bow back against the strings, but his hands were shaking now, so much so that the trembling was actually causing errors in his usually flawless playing.

He was a _mess_. The sheer weight of that crashed down on him in that moment, almost chasing away whatever John was saying in the background:

"You need to rest".

"Leave. Me. Alone," Sherlock intoned, jerking a staccato note, each louder and more screechy than the last, to punctuate each word. "I'll sleep when I'm tired. If _you're_ so worried about it, _you_ should be in bed," he continued bluntly. "Piss off and leave me alone."

Part of his mind said it was very, very strange to be on the giving end of that order. Most people _him_ to piss off, not the other way around. It was... interesting, he supposed. But, really, he was too tired to care. He just wished John would leave him alone so he could go back to suffering on his own. Was solitude really too much to ask?

John crossed his arms. "No. I'm not leaving. Someone needs to haul your sorry arse into bed when you finally collapse." Sherlock watched from the corner of his eyes as John walked across the room and dropped into the large chair in the corner of the room. He met Sherlock's gaze. "You're trying to handle things on your own again, Sherlock. You should know by now that that never works out for you."

"Fine." Sherlock jerked his violin and bow away from his chest and flung both of them onto the bed. "_I'll_ leave."

He swept from the room, his dressing gown billowing out behind him. It was blue, but it wasn't _his_ because those had gone out of production ages ago. He could have found a maroon one easily enough, but his blue, striped one was impossible. Besides, the maroon one didn't matter; the _blue_ one had been the one he had lived in the most at Baker Street...

Sherlock shook his head, too fast, because the world spun wildly and he stumbled into the wall, barely catching himself. Annoying. All of this. Every damn thing. Because first the flat and then Mycroft and now _this_ flat and everything was _too damn quiet_. Being in the country versus being on one of the most travelled streets in Central London? There was a difference and the silence was making his head hurt because _this wasn't where they were supposed to be._

He wasn't sure where he was going, but he figured a walk was probably the best bet. It probably wasn't, actually, given his physical state, but mentally, he wanted to be alone. He took the stairs two a time down, until about the eighth stair from the bottom, where his physical state decided to conveniently give out and he went down like a sack of potatoes.

He was unconscious before he would have had time to blink, which was for the best; falling down eight stairs in a tumble of sleep-deprived limbs and a pounding headache wasn't going to really help anything, so at least he wasn't awake to witness the pain as he fell.

* * *

**Prepared to do anything?**

**;p I do not own _Sherlock_. Thanks for reading!**


	5. Chapter Four

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Sherlock was vaguely aware that he was hurting, that something wasn't right, that something unnatural besides their flat burning down had happened, and despite that, his body simply did not want to face the world of the conscious right now. Neither did his mind, because there was bliss in unconsciousness, where he couldn't wallow in pity or anger or confusion or irritation that he couldn't just _get on_ with his life after something so seemingly insignificant but yet so important that it made his entire _being_ hurt.

So, despite the blood and the physical pain, between the mental anguish and the tangible irritation, Sherlock was mostly just about done with the whole damn thing. His mind had been done for awhile - that's why he was on such a short fuse, why he wouldn't and couldn't talk - but his body had finally caught up. He wasn't waking up until he was sure that things were going to be better.

Unfortunately, they weren't going to be.

So, that just meant sleeping until his body made up for the horrible treatment that Sherlock had been providing it the past few days (and even before that, because of the case). It meant trying to jump-start his mind again like you would a car when the battery died, but this was more fragile, most time-consuming. He needed time to come back to everything and it wasn't going to happen in the matter in of minutes that John, if he was watching, probably wanted it to right now.

Without so much as a twitch, Sherlock merely kept right on sleeping as blood trickled down his cheek and his hair fell into his eyes, because he was just that tired.

By the time that he pried his eyes open again, it was dark outside. Which didn't make much sense, did it...? It had been dark when he had gotten up the first time, but he had the sense that he'd been sleeping for a really long time. Was it already the next night...? Sure, he could sleep for a long period of time if he hadn't been sleeping (and he hadn't been lately) but...

Where was he, even? What had happen? He had no conscious recollection of falling asleep... but then he realised that he must have passed out, because that was the only time he ever woke up in a confused fog.

"Hey," John's voice said quietly.

Sherlock slowly edged his gaze to John. Why did it hurt to move his head, move his eyes? That... meant that he must have hit his head, his mind slowly supplied, slowly coming back to himself after his unintentional post-case crash. That was reinforced by the fact that his head was pounding and that there was a cool cloth on his forehead, which he had to begrudgingly admit that it was helping the throbbing headache.

"I'll give you this in a moment, but first you need to tell me if anything hurts more than it should."

John was talking to him, asking him with deep-set worry in his eyes if he was okay, holding a glass of orange juice in one hand. _Alright, just wait a minute_, Sherlock wanted to say, but it was too much effort to unstick his tongue from the roof his mouth, so he just focussed on inner deductions rather than responding immediately.

His head hurt - obvious. He didn't know what had happened, really, but he had probably hit his head when he fell... although he still couldn't get a hold on _where_ he had fallen from. He supposed it didn't matter. The fact that John was holding orange juice (something that Sherlock didn't even like) reaffirmed the fact that he had passed out without external influence; his body had, most likely, simply given out. It happened enough for him not to question it, or the pain that occasionally followed. But, John was asking, so focus on other things.

His shoulder was throbbing, too. He must have hit it as well. There wasn't enough pain for it to be dislocated, so probably just a massive bruise forming there. Sherlock shifted slightly, experimentally. No pain in his back, not any more than was expected from a fall, anyway. Nothing sharp, nothing shooting, certainly nothing debilitating. He curled his fingers into a fist, flexing his muscles. Nothing there, nothing in the opposite arm. Toes to knees to thighs, pain-free. It was too much effort to check his hips for superficial pains, but he was seventy-nine percent sure that there was no lasting damage there, either. Check later.

Nauseous. That was probably to be expected, though - he _had_ hit his head, after all. Headache. Again, expected. Vaguely aware of the fact that there was some sensitivity to light, and also sound, but nothing enough to ask John to turn off the light. Tired, but that was probably because... well, he _thought_ that he'd been asleep for awhile. He'd wake up a bit more once he'd been conscious longer.

Sherlock shook his head, side to side, _very_ slowly. He was testing his limits now, on purpose. He was somewhat disappointed, but not really surprised, when the headache intensified and dizziness swam across his vision, but he expected that would go away, too.

"I'm okay," he allowed, voice hoarse. "... How long was I asleep?" he mumbled, slowly reaching forward to take the orange juice from John. He took a small sip. He needed the sugar.

John leaned back and blew out a deep breath. "You," he muttered, "are a bloody lucky git. You could have cracked your skull open or suffered massive internal trauma."

Sherlock rolled his eyes when John mentioned trauma, geared up to follow the eye-roll with a dismissive _Dull_, but stopped when even moving his eyes in such a quick motion made his throb. It usually didn't hurt that much when he had a headache, did it? _Well, you did crack your head open on the floor. Or the stairs. Or the railing. Somewhere around there._ He only half remembered what had happened. That part wasn't terribly uncommon after he fainted; he never remembered much after fainting and then waking up again. It was usually because his body was too tired, anyway.

This was _slightly_ different, though. It really hurt. He was going to actually need ice for this. He was definitely going to have bruises, on various parts of his body.

"You're sure you're okay?" John murmured, reaching out for Sherlock's head but then hesitating. His hand fell away uselessly after a moment.

_I'm alive, aren't I? _Sherlock thought sardonically. He was fine.

He took another sip of his orange juice. His unsettled stomach took the unwanted addition as a direct insult, a punch to the gut that had him scrambling up faster than he thought possible right now. Blackness erupted before his vision but it didn't matter because the gorge had already been rising deep in his throat to begin with.

He wrapped one arm around his stomach and his other hand went to his head because of his pounding temples before doubling over to heave mostly bile and orange juice, and whatever else mish-mosh of food he'd put in his mouth as of late (not much), onto the floor. Moving wasn't an option now; it was all too hopelessly far away.

John's hands somehow ended up against his back, pressed against his sweat-damp shirt, while he prattled on about something _it's okay_ or some rubbish like that.

Sherlock swallowed and looked for his orange juice, only to become startlingly aware of the fact that he had spilled it in his mad dash to sit up, and it was now soaking into the seat of his trousers and the sofa. Good thing the sofa was leather.

In the process of one, two, three?, he didn't remember but it couldn't have been long, day(s) that they had been here, they'd managed to christen the new flat with blood in the stairway, orange juice on the sofa cushions, and vomit on the sitting room floor.

... Almost kind of the same things that had always happened at Baker Street.

Sherlock almost smiled.

Almost.

Instead: "Concussion," he cracked out. Because that was what it had to be. The nausea hadn't gone away since the... since the flat had burned down, but he hadn't been throwing up because of it unless he tried to eat. The headache, the dizziness, the lightheadedness and the sensitivity, it all pointed towards a concussion. _Damn_, he thought, closing his eyes. He was going to be out of commission for a few days. Not that he was really _in_ to begin with.

"No, Sherlock, open your eyes," John said suddenly. "Open your eyes."

Sherlock sighed shakily. "I've had concussions before," he said, instead of opening his eyes. "I'm fine." He paused and then slowly opened his eyes, blinking slowly as he looked at John. "Can you get me some paracetamol and ice?" he asked plaintively.

He was going to get up. He really was. He'd been here for... he didn't know how long, but it had to have been awhile. And while he _was_ dehydrated, he ought to be somewhere closer to a bathroom for whenever he _did_ need the loo, or when he needed to throw up again if necessary. The spilled orange juice was cold and sticky against his skin and he needed to change clothes, but... He just couldn't move right now. His head was pounding. With medication and some ice, hopefully it would dull enough for him to be able to handle some maintenance, on his own.

John sighed, releasing Sherlock's shoulder to stand up. "All right. Just... give me a minute," he muttered, fixating him with what Sherlock called his _doctor's glare_. "And don't try to get up. I don't..." he trailed off, swallowed, nodded seemingly to himself, and strode away.

Sherlock wanted his shirt off, as well as his trousers because it was just becoming plain uncomfortable now, the orange juice, but that versus passing out again... he'd taken uncomfortable for now. He leaned back against the sofa again, wincing. He drew his fingers up to press again his ribs, one by one, as he felt around for anything out of place. Bruises, maybe a fracture on one or two... but he thought just a bruise.

"Okay," John said as he walked back in, "ice and medication." He handed both ice and pills over, along with a glass of water. "How's your head? Any vision problems?"

Sherlock let his hands fall away from his ribs. "No. I'm dizzy and lightheaded, both of which are to be expected." He swallowed the pills with a sip of the water. "I get double vision if I move my eyes too fast, but I'm attempting to not do that for the sake of not having double vision." He pressed the ice again his head, leaning heavily back into the sofa cushions. "I'm fine."

It was apparently the wrong thing to say. The lines around John's eyes tightened, his shoulders straightened. "You are _not_ fine, Sherlock."

Sherlock shrugged slightly.

"How many times do we have to go through this?" John asked. Sherlock looked up at him dolefully, but John continued before he could say anything. "You _do_ this _all_ the time. You say you're okay even when you're falling apart. Haven't you learned by now that it's _alright_ to be _human_? You are _allowed_ to have emotions."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, getting to his feet clumsily. The world swam dangerously, but hearing this conversation was far more dangerous for his state of mental health right now.

"No, don't do that." John grabbed his arm. "Don't walk away. Not now."

Sherlock irritably tried to shake him off while simultaneously trying not to make himself stumble. It was a difficult battle. "Get off."

"No."

"John."

"You do _not_ get to do this, Sherlock!"

"Let go!" Sherlock retorted, jerking his wrist free.

John's fighting irritation turned into a full glare. "No!" The next thing Sherlock knew, he was pushed back against the wall, held there by John's tight grip on his arms. Clearly, the intent had been to slam him back, but some, now-buried part of John's mind must have been holding back. Thankfully. "I know you've had it rough the past couple of days, Sherlock, but you aren't the only one in this! _I'm_ here, too! _I_ lived in that flat that burned down, too, you know?! So, you don't get to sit and moan about over the loss of your life because _we were both there!_ It's not _just you!_"

It wasn't funny anymore. This, making John angry, making him snap. Or maybe it had never been funny. His priorities were too skewed that Sherlock didn't even know what he was thinking anymore. He stared down at John blankly. It was like he was actually seeing him for the first time since the fire. He didn't like what he saw... in John, or in the reflection bouncing back at him in John's eyes.

John blinked and inhaled sharply, dropping his hands. He took a step away, eyebrows furrowing, confusion or surprise or _something_ flickering across his face. He looked at his hands - they were trembling - before curling them into fists. Then he shook his head slightly, cleared his throat, and slowly sank into the sofa. He looked like he was in shock.

Sherlock swallowed, swallowing back pain, nausea, heartbreak and sadness and the overwhelming urge to escape, and fixed his dressing gown. He painstakingly took the few steps to the sofa again and sank down gingerly next to John.

* * *

**Sherlock's definitely not okay, but when the penny drops, neither is John.  
****Sorry for the slow, slow updates. I'm having a** **_Sherlock_, so I'm working on it!**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thanks for reading.**


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